


The Wish

by juxtapose



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: (sort-of), Angst, Character Death, M/M, Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-24
Updated: 2013-10-24
Packaged: 2017-12-30 08:59:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1016670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juxtapose/pseuds/juxtapose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Our people wish to please. Is there something I can provide for you? Anything.”<br/>“I wish for my <i>t’hy’la</i> to return to me.” He all but gasped the words in one breath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wish

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! I haven't written since before I came to England; isn't that crazy? I've been a bit swamped with the whole Study Abroad thing, but I finally got into the groove of writing a couple of months ago. Thanks to [Danielle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/everdeenfraypotter) and [Kelly](http://starwhalesinthesky.tumblr.com) for reading this over. A HUGE thank-you to [G](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ellebrittany) for being my Beta and editing all my illogical diction and syntax. XD Enjoy!  
> DISCLAIMER: Besides for the made-up planet in this story, I don't own _Star Trek_. If I did, Bones would have more screen time in nu!Trek.

There was a sharp humming sound within his brain. It wasn’t the kind akin to that of his mother’s lullabies from when he was very young, or to the way his _ashayam_ sang in the shower when he thought there was no one listening--

“Captain.”

\--The way he _used_ to sing in the shower . . . No, it was altogether different, reverberating as would a large drum, almost deafening--

“Captain!”

\--It was the sound of half a mind gone empty, the other half gone . . . mad?

“Captain Spock!”

Spock blinked. Admiral John Archer was staring at him with a serious, knitted brow via visual comml from Starbase 4. Spock sat up a bit straighter in his chair. “Yes, Admiral?”

“Jesus . . .” Archer ran a hand over his face. “Doctor, you seriously cleared this guy as mentally fit?”

Dr. McCoy somehow materialized behind Spock (or had he been there all along? It was difficult to tell with all the noise in his head). He came up to press his hands onto the table and leaned forward on the weight of his arms to see the Admiral’s face at eye level on the small screen in Conference Room 7. “He’s a Vulcan, sir. I can’t find any proof by Regulation standards that he’s _un_ fit, even if there is. If I may, sir. . . look, the reason we hailed you about this is . . . this loss is weighing on the entire crew like a ton of damn bricks.”

Emotion laced McCoy’s words. Spock wanted to ignore it and focus on the buzzing in his head, but McCoy pressed on, the shake in his voice audible: “It’s been a week. One damn week. I really don’t think bringin’ someone else onto the bridge and forcin’ everyone on this ship to call him ‘Captain’ is gonna do so good for morale or stability around here. Spock is a familiar face, at the very least. Until we get this sorted out, as CMO I’m recommending Spock continue as Acting Captain.”

Archer leaned back in his seat, folding his hands and resting his elbows on his desk in front of him. Spock studied his pixilated image, waited for the answer he knew he would get. Humans are often easily swayed. Especially those in positions of power, Spock had found. They will leave it to the lower ranks to make the difficult decision whenever possible.

Sure enough: “Fine. But like I said when you first hailed and told us the news, Doc . . . per Starfleet Orders, I can’t let you all off to Starbase until this mission is complete. I wish I could . . .” The Admiral sighed. “The _Enterprise_ crew have been commended for their bravery on multiple occasions. I think Jim Kirk would’ve wanted them to see this through, even if he can’t.”

Spock wanted to say that Admiral Archer hadn’t the faintest idea what James Tiberius Kirk would have wanted. He didn’t. Instead, he said, “I am willing to take on full responsibility for the crew of the _Enterprise_ for the duration of our transport mission to Zorryn II, after which the transfer of a new Captain will be left to the good judgment of Starfleet Command.”

“Yeah . . . okay.” The Admiral waved his hand in recognition.. “A goddamn mess is what this is. Huge goddamn mess. I’ll handle the rest of the proceedings with the Cardassian ambassador. You just do what you need gotta do to get your crew by for the next week or so, ‘til they have time to grieve.” He shook his head. “Pass along my condolences once again. Archer out.”

The screen went black. McCoy let out a very long breath it seemed he had been refraining from exhaling for some time, and slouched into the seat next to Spock. “Christ,” he mumbled, “You owe me one, you know that? I just lied to the face of one of Starfleet’s Biggest Bigshots.”

“I fail to see how your statements constituted a lie, Doctor,” Spock retorted flatly, “I am perfectly capable of commanding this ship--”

“Except you’re not.” It wasn’t an accusation, Spock noted. He met the Doctor’s eyes and they were soft. “You’re not okay, Spock. None of us are. _We lost Jim_. And this time there ain’t any comin’ back from it.” The sound of a laugh burst from him, suddenly and harshly, but it did not match the sheer human sorrow in his face. “Y’know, I . . . I thought ‘cause of last time . . . with Khan’s blood, and everythin’? I thought I could fix it. I at least had the damn motivation to try. But it wasn’t any use, was it? I knew it when the phaser hit him . . . Just thought it might’ve ended up differently. You know Jim. Sonofabitch always liked to surprise us.”

McCoy was babbling now. Humans tend to do this when they are attempting to avert the severity of a situation. Highly illogical behavior.

He waited for Jim’s teasing presence in his mind, projecting something like, _C’mon_ , t’hy’la, _don’t be so judgmental. I can practically see that left eyebrow lifting so high up it’s almost floating off your face. Everyone grieves differently. So stick that in your logic and suck it._

It did not come. There was the humming sound, and nothing more. Next to him McCoy sniffled a bit, stood up out of the chair and charged out of the room, but Spock’s heightened hearing picked up on the disgustingly strangled sobs of the Doctor as he headed for the turbolift, either way.

* * *

He had not thought it biologically possible for Vulcans to vomit until four years ago when his mother died. He’d watched her human eyes and hands reach for him while he beamed up and away, and upon returning to his personal quarters later, threw up into the toilet for 20.6 minutes.

There was no blood when Jim died, no trace of his death lingering on Spock’s fingers or on his clothes, but the taste of his own blood was in his mouth nonetheless as he cradled the body even after Mr. Scott had beamed them both up. The severance of the bond had made his insides twist and turn. Something was _wrong_ inside of him, he realized then, and it was irreparable.

Spock concluded that if Vulcans were incapable of regurgitating, it was not so for half-Vulcans, for he had not been able to force down even a sip of water or even a bite of celery for 6.49 days.

* * *

_\--It was an accident—_

_\--Xenophobic Cardassian bastards—_

_\--didn’t realize the Captain was trying to help—_

_\--is it true he pushed Spock out of the way of the phaser?—_

_\--really don’t think he’s okay . . . --_

He could hear them all talking from two tables away. Crew members of various ranks, all gathered together, because grief has the strange ability to do such things. Some of them Spock knew by name, others he didn’t. But he was sure that at least 60% of them were unaware that his Vulcan hearing allowed him to decipher bits and pieces of what they were saying.

Spock sat in the mess hall because he had to. Because all of McCoy’s talk about ‘crew morale’ had to reflect _something_ or at least give the impression it did. Spock did not logically see how his presence in the Captain’s chair versus someone else’s made any difference (it was an assumption made by the Doctor drawn from things like emotions and characteristics of humanoid mental stability that Spock frankly couldn’t be bothered to delve into). In truth, he was doing it because it was his duty as Commanding Officer, and because he knew with certainty that Jim would have wanted him to.

It was Lieutenant Uhura who spoke over all the chatter. “You guys don’t _get_ it, do you?”

Ah, Nyota. Of course she would understand, above anyone else. Not merely, if even at all, because of her prior relations with Spock, but because of her innate understanding of dynamics within and between cultures across worlds. As the Terran saying went, she was no fool, and she would not stand for others around her to _be_ fooled, if she could help it.

“Some of us have lost a Captain. Most of us have lost a friend. But Spock has lost something more than that.” The word rolls off her tongue with 99.4% accuracy of pronunciation: “ _T’hy’la._ Most of you weren’t even around for the bonding ceremony, were you?”

Spock was staring with intensity at his plomeek soup, but he could practically sense some of the group bowing their heads in embarrassment.

“Captain Kirk’s death took a part of all of us with it,” Uhura continued, “but for Spock, a mental link has been broken, and there’s no repairing it. When Vulcans bond, they bond for _life._ So show a little respect, please.”

He looked up, then. Uhura cast him a look from where she sat, though no one else at the table had picked up on it. She knew he could hear, of course. Her eyes said, _I want to help you._

She sent him four messages on his PADD throughout the rest of the day. Spock did not trust himself to be able to respond logically, so he didn’t.

* * *

“I grieve with thee, Spock,” rang out the voice of the Vulcan Ambassador in Spock’s quarters, “I, too, understand what it is like to lose one’s bondmate.”

Spock asked the jagged image of his alternate self on the screen, “Does it ever cease?”

There was pity in the Ambassador’s eyes. “The humming.” It wasn’t a question, because he knew exactly what Spock had meant by his. “No. No, it does not.”

* * *

Their mission on Zorryn II was simple: deliver the necessary medicinal aids to Zorryn citizens. Speak to a few delegates. Leave.

Honestly, Spock did not know much about Zorrynians, except from what he remembered from the stories his mother used to tell which she inexplicably called ‘old wives’ tales.’ At the Academy it was taught that traditionally, they were a people that aim for the pleasure of others—which was why Zorryn II had become quite the ‘tourist’ spot, often a planet visited by travelling starships for shore leave.

Amanda used to tell Spock as he sat on her knee that back in the twenty-first century, humans and humanoids used to exploit the Zorryn people for their desire to please, specifically their ability to grant wishes. “The Zorrynians are a magical people, Spock.”

“Father says the concept of magic is illogical,” Spock had said, peering up at his mother quizzically.

“Mm. Maybe so. And maybe that’s why the Zorrynians stopped using their powers, because people would use them for harm. For greed. But when someone makes a wish to a Zorrynian, the Zorrynian must grant it. So now, anyone who makes a wish has to pay a price in return.”

“What price, Mother?”

Amanda had frowned in thought. “I suppose it depends on the wish. The lesson is not to take for granted what has been given to you, Spock. If a man who has money wishes for more, he is greedy. If a man wishes to be better or wiser than another, he is arrogant. A Zorrynian will grant a wish because it is the people’s way, but nothing can stop that wish from twisting itself into something very ugly. It’s the curse of the Zorrynian Wish.”

Nine-year-old Spock had absolutely no idea what to make of all that, but now—as Spock made his way back from the Zorrynian Ambassador’s council chamber after settling negotiations, he understood. It had been one of those moralistic parables humans were so fond of. Nothing more.

He looked around, briefly, studying the people surrounding him. Their long, confident strides. Sets of piercing violet eyes gazing curiously in his direction—what for? It seemed unlikely that none of them had seen a Vulcan before.

“Commander—I mean, Captain.” This was the sixth time Lieutenant Sulu had misaddressed Spock today. Spock was no empath but he could practically feel the discomfort in Sulu’s voice over the communicator. It was mutual. “Are you ready to beam up yet, sir?”

“Momentarily, Lieutenant,” Spock replied. He was just about to send along his coordinates to Ensign Chekov when someone touched him on the shoulder.

Spock turned to find a young Zorrynian woman standing before him, long fiery hair braided down to her waist in the typical fashion of the planet, purple eyes relentlessly peering into Spock’s own. Her dark red robes shone in the light of Zorryn II’s three suns. “You long for something that is missing, do you not?”

“I--” Not often was Spock at a loss for words. He allowed himself a few seconds to process her meaning and concluded that logically, because Zorrynians sought to please by nature, they could sense when someone is in need of . . . well. Pleasing. “I do not believe I am . . . in need of the assistance you suggest,” he offered vaguely.

He started to walk away when she scurried up to follow him. “Our people wish to please. Is there something I can provide for you? Anything.”

Spock thought of his mother’s old stories.

_. . . When someone makes a wish to a Zorrynian, the Zorrynian must grant it . . ._

Suddenly, he felt as though he was choking, drowning, that there was _something_ keeping him from breathing properly. The illogic of it rang in his ears like a siren, and what would his father think of him now? Torn apart by grief—such human, human grief—

“I wish for my _t’hy’la_ to return to me.” He all but gasped the words in one breath.

The Zorrynian simply stared at him as if she could no longer understand Federation Standard. It was then the irrational nature of what he had just said flashed across his consciousness. He turned away from the girl on his heel and marched away. How foolish. Completely, utterly foolish, and so human. They had been stories, just stories, and even if they hadn’t, to tamper with the established rules of another culture would not only violate the Prime Directive, but invalidate Spock’s identity as a science officer and a member of Starfleet altogether.

He wondered if it was the humming in his head that kept him from hearing properly. But he was almost certain as he beamed up to the ship he could hear the girl calling after him: _“But do you know the price, sir? Do you know the price?”_

* * *

Spock awoke not because his biological clock was telling him he must report to the bridge soon.

He awoke because the noise in his head had stopped. In its place was the smooth, gently prodding presence he had physically, mentally ached for in the last two weeks:

_T’hy’la. Good morning._

Spock sat up, finding himself face-to-face with Jim Kirk, his bondmate, his everything. Jim grinned—that half-grin, the one Doctor McCoy described as ‘the look of a cheeky bastard,’ and Spock felt something in the depths of his stomach leap. “Thought you were gonna sleep forever.”

“Jim . . .” Spock muttered, “It . . . it is impossible.”

But it wasn’t, because he could feel the restored bond as if it had never been broken, and before he could properly and logically register what was happening Jim was all over him, planting possessive kisses everywhere on Spock’s body, and Spock was gone.

This was completeness. This was what it meant to be whole.

* * *

Jim traced little shapes on Spock’s bare chest, and Spock said for the sixth time in the last 2.4 hours, “I do not understand why we cannot tell the crew.”

“Why do they need to know, anyway?” Jim playfully bit at Spock’s collarbone, smiling into his skin. “Why can’t this be our little secret, hmm?”

“The crew believes you to be dead, Jim,” retorted Spock, “At present, we are en route to Starbase 7, where the majority of the crew will be gathered for your funeral. They are . . . as you would say, grieving. For you. And you have hidden here for the duration of the day.”

Silence lingered between them for one minute. Then Jim says, “It doesn’t matter.”

“I do not understand--”

“What matters is that we’re okay again. I’m here. I’m always gonna be here. And it’s just gonna be you and me.”

He leaned up and pressed his lips to Spock’s, sending warmth through their bond, and for a moment, Spock let himself forget. That is, until Jim repeated:

“Just you and me. Forever, okay?”

The room was dark, and as such Spock was unable to see the full features of Jim’s face, but there was something ambiguously, yet deeply _wrong_ in the blue of his eyes. Spock could not place it, but for the first time since he saw Jim fall to the ground from that phaser hit, he felt fear crawling up his spine.

**

Days turned into weeks. Spock had stood at the ceremony and watched Starfleet Officials bury a body under the name of James T. Kirk.

Frankly, Spock wasn’t sure who they buried. The person in his bed, he knew now, was not Jim.

It _was_ Jim in that something of Jim’s spirit was there—otherwise the bond between them would not have been restored—but something else was there, too. Something dark.

_A Zorrynian will grant a wish because it is the people’s way, but nothing can stop that wish from twisting itself into something very ugly._

Jim pressed Spock against the wall in his dimly-lit quarters, as he did every night. Dug his fingertips into Spock’s hips, ground into him, and the animalistic growls he emitted were more and more unfamiliar each time. Physically, he was the same, and as such Spock reacted to Jim the way he always did. The drag of Jim’s teeth on his skin sent shivers through him. The wet warmth of his lips on Spock’s length was enough to send him over the edge.

Tonight, though, when Jim came and buried his face into Spock’s neck and cried out his name, Spock could taste salt in his own mouth from what he knew were tears.

Spock could no longer remember when this—when Jim—felt like the inexplicable, human feeling of _home_. It was not this. It had never been.

* * *

Spock entered his quarters. Jim was lounging on the bed as per usual, and smiled wide when he saw him. “Hi, ashalik.” Jim’s pronunciation of Vulcan terms of endearment had never been perfect. That at least had remained consistent.

Jim—the real Jim—would never have wanted this. For himself, for Spock . . . for anyone. It was inhuman.

And that is the price Spock had been forced to pay, wasn’t it? In his moment of human weakness, he had taken the humanity from the very person who had found it buried with in Spock and made him better for it.

Spock moved to stand in front of the bed, hands clasped behind him in typical Vulcan stance. “I have officially been promoted to Captain of the _Enterprise_.”

Jim sat up, crawling across the bed to slide his hands up Spock’s uniform shirt, peering up at him with twisted seduction. “Yeah? Told you a little death would do some good for the ship. You’ll be a great captain.”

Even now, Spock could see bits and pieces of him. _His_ Jim. Buried within those horrible sentences was the belief in Spock’s ability to lead the ship. His Jim had always believed that, had always trusted him with taking control when he couldn’t.

This made what he was about to do all the more difficult. 

He was Captain, now. His responsibility for the crew had been extended to the remainder of the five-year mission. And Spock realized now, more than ever, that logically if his human side was something he could not escape, it was something with which he must reconcile. 

If all this had happened years ago, Spock would have blamed his irrational wish that had brought him to ruin on his half-human heritage, on the nature of humanity buried deep within him. 

But if Jim had taught him anything in the time he knew him, it was that sometimes—when neither sole logic nor sole emotion could explain a thing away--there was no one to blame but oneself. There was nothing to turn to but oneself and the principles one holds dear. _I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I only know what I can do._

And his human half was telling him what he must do to redeem himself. To be the leader his soul mate had always known he could be. 

“My _t’hy’la_. My _ashayam_.” Spock didn’t stop the shake in his voice. It seemed moot to do so. “The one to whom I have promised my life, shared my _katra_ , bound my mind.” The phaser in his hand felt cold as ice as he held it behind his back. 

Jim grinned. 

“I am sorry.” 

Spock’s aim was perfect. The body on the bed disintegrated until it was nothing but ash. Spock did not feel the familiar shameful sting of human tears behind his eyes. In fact, he did not emote at all—and there was an odd aura of calm in the room that he had not experienced in weeks. 

When it was over, the humming sound began again. Spock mentally greeted it like an old friend—it was all he had left of his, after all—and left his quarters for the bridge. 


End file.
